What is Hidden
by ToMyDearestForsaken
Summary: Molly Hooper knows that Sherlock is a human, and in one night, she finally finds proof.
1. Dear Diary

_For those who read this, there are a few things you should know. This starts out in Molly's POV, then moves into an outside voice with a knowing of what Molly is thinking, and finally finishes in Molly's POV again._

_I will clearly mark those areas._

_This is also set after the fourth episode of Sherlock. Right after Sherlock see's Irene Adler's body on the table after the Christmas party._

_I do not own Sherlock, or anything BBC produces blah blah blah..._

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><p>It was quite silly really.<p>

I shouldn't have felt that way about it. The way that his brother had smiled at me when I asked the question, I knew I was right.

But the thing was…I didn't want to believe it myself.

I had…I had gone through so much for this man. I don't even know why I bother anymore. I feel like such a silly girl, dressing up, putting on lipstick…he even deduced an unconscious effort about lipstick compared to bloody packaging.

He's such a…he's such…I can't even begin to describe _what_ Sherlock Holmes is…

But now, now he's sleeping in my bed. And I'm feeling a tad bit like the night star. You know, the one that was over the manger in the bible? That's how I'm feeling. Bright, angelic, like there's a beacon of hope in my life finally.

I should probably start from the beginning though shouldn't I? I was always rubbish with these sort of things, but the therapist tells me it will help. So, starting over.

Dear Diary.

Going to the Christmas party was the first night off I had had in over two months. I don't really have that many close friends besides Toby (my cat) and a few other spatters of friends around town. It's just that they tend to tell me the same thing.

_"You keep going on about this Sherlock guy. If you love him so much ask him for a bloody drink and shag him already."_

And it's not like I haven't tried. They just don't understand him like I do. He doesn't answer to the normal social aspects of society like they do. He's weird and brilliant.

Kinda like me in a sense.

Not that I'm as brilliant as he is. Oh no, he's far beyond me. It's just that I'm a tad weird, working with dead bodies and finding them more entertaining than living people and all that. Oh dear. I've made myself sound like a bit of a freak…

But that's besides the point. Anyway, getting on to…yea. I was hoping this would work. That maybe, maybe tonight, God would bless me with a real human emotion from Sherlock Holmes. I'm not very religious, but I was praying from the top of my styled hair down to the bottoms of my stiletto heels that he would notice me. I was going to do it. I was finally going to ask Sherlock out.

I'd wrapped him a present of a new wristwatch. He uses his so much. I was rather proud of myself noticing that. His was made of black leather, and it was starting to wear down a bit around the face of the watch. I bought him one made of metal, thinking that it would last longer, and maybe…maybe he would think of me when he wore it.

Though when I made it in the front door, I could tell things were not going to go well from the very beginning. I should have known. Well, now I'm okay with it, but then it was miserable. My heart just dropped like an anvil on that cartoon coyote. He looked so irritated seeing me. I was sure that he hated me. Just sure of it.

Then those hateful words starting pouring out of his mouth. Those little daggers of truth that hit the remains of my tattered heart.

I think if his words hadn't been so truthful, I would have coped. I would have been able to just call him a dick and move on. But I couldn't. Because everything he said was true.

Sherlock is one of those people you don't want to look in the eye. Because you feel like you're going to fall so far down into the pit of hell that you won't be able to escape. He's like a corpse. You don't think they can see you, but in a sense they see everything.

But he didn't see. He didn't realize. And I saw it in his eyes when he read the tag on the present.

I would have been more pleased with myself, if it wasn't for the pain I saw then. I'd never seen any emotional output from Sherlock Holmes before in the years that I had known him, but seeing the pain in his eyes made me want to weep. I just wanted to tell him it was okay, tell him I knew he was sorry.

But then it was his turn to shock me.

_"I apologize…Merry Christmas Molly Hooper."_

Then he placed a chaste kiss on my cheek, and his blasted phone had to go off and ruin my reverie.

Sherlock had _kissed_ me. ME. Molly Hooper. I mean, it was only a chaste kiss, but it still…I still felt it everywhere.

And _that_ is when things get interesting.

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><p>Molly Hooper walked home that night, hating herself more than she had in her entire life. She had realized two things that night.<p>

One: Sherlock Holmes had no intention of dating her whatsoever.

Two: Sherlock had a relationship with a rather beautiful woman right under her nose.

It also didn't help that she saw it in his eyes how much he knew and cared for this woman. The emotions that ran through her were many. Confusion, depression, angst, and the worst of all jealousy. Molly couldn't believe it. She was jealous of a CORPSE.

She turned up her music in her ears, hoping the soothing sounds of Enya would keep her from spilling over the tears in her eyes before she reached her flat.

A bottle of wine was necessary. Definitely.

Toby was there to greet her as usual, rubbing through her ankles to remind her that his bowl was empty and needed filling. She did so, and then gave him a saucer of milk. It _was _Christmas after all. The pinot noir was sitting so beautifully on the shelf she couldn't help but pour herself a glass…or two…or three…

She was almost asleep on her sofa watching _It's a Wonderful Life_ when she heard the light but precise tapping on her door. She knew who it was. She knew because she didn't even bother getting up. She knew, Sherlock being who he was, he would just come in on his own. He would have deduced by now that she was home and still awake somehow.

But surprisingly…he didn't. She turned off the telly, waiting. But she didn't hear a thing. It was so quiet she could almost hear his breathing on the other side of the door. Tentatively, she called out. "S-Sherlock?"

His voice was barely audible. "May I come in?"

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. He was trying to be polite. She stood up, opened the door.

"You've been crying," he stated, those eyes undressing every flaw about her.

She sniffed. "Yup. I have." She opened the door further. "If you don't come in now Toby will get out."

Sherlock strode in with those long legs that Molly had been so fascinated by. But now she felt as if she were one of the bodies on the table. Cold, lifeless. Her heart was broken. How else was she supposed to feel? And now she was feeling terribly exposed…

"I came to…apologize for my attitude this evening." His words were clipped. Almost memorized. "Thank you for the gift." He lifted his arm, the watch gleaming in the poor light of her kitchen.

She cleared her throat, unsure of what to say. "Tea?" Grabbing the pot off the drying rack next to her sink, she began to fill it. And she instantly dropped it again when she felt warm hands on her hips.

"Molly…" His voice was so different from what she was used to. She was used to the confidence in his voice, the stoic nature of his sentences making her want to ravage him and beat him senseless at the same time.

But now…now it was soft and unsure. There was a vulnerability deep beneath the surface.

Sherlock Holmes was vulnerable…

"I…I need something. But I don't know…what…" As he spoke, his arms wrapped around her waist. She felt the bridge of his nose on that little spot where her neck met her shoulder, and a small shiver ran down her spine. "I feel…" he stopped.

She turned her head, the feel of his curly black locks tickling her nose. "Sherlock…you're sad."

He lifted his head, looked her in the eye. "Sad about?"

She turned to face him, her hips cradled by the counter. She picked on her hands as she spoke. "You obviously had a close…friendship with that woman. And now she's…she's in a better place."

"She's dead."

The way he said it made her heart break for the hundredth time that night. "Yes. Yes she is Sherlock. And I'm sorry."

He continued to gaze at her, and she couldn't read what he was thinking. It also didn't help her that he was so close their noses almost brushed, and he was reading her entire face, not just her eyes.

"Molly...I don't think I'm sad."

"Then what do you think?"

The pregnant pause before his answer had the hairs on the back of Molly's neck standing on end.

"Give me permission."

"Okay…you have permission."

The move into the kiss was almost as passionate as the kiss itself. Molly felt the brush of his nose, the breath he released as he crossed that imperceptible distance. _Don't be afraid…_

Molly didn't understand why the thought crossed her mind, but as his lips touched hers, she couldn't feel more afraid of what was to come than she was at that moment.

The kiss was a brush. An 'experiment'. She let him lead. She wanted to revel in the fact that Sherlock for the first time in his life was learning something about himself and not about the people around him.

Another brush…an incoherent mutter, and his lips pressed against hers to cling. She felt his hands bunch in her ratty t-shirt from college. She pressed her palms against his warm chest. He was wearing her favorite purple shirt, his long coat already hanging from when he had come in.

The heady kiss was beginning to expand, their tongues meeting for a slight caress, then a tangling of passion. Her hands had made their way into his hair, those curls feeling as soft as they looked.

The feel of cold hands on warm flesh made her gasp in shock. He froze.

"No…it's okay," she murmured into his lips. "Touch me…"

The way she said it made her feel like a temptress. She had never felt more empowered before in her life.

There was a growl in his throat when he kissed her, and his hands moved roughly up her skin to claim a breast. Both of them moaned at that touch, and he kissed her throat as he did so. She could feel the marks that would be there in the morning, but she didn't care.

He lifted her shirt off, pressing her further into the counter. Their hips meshed, and Molly could feel him through his slacks, his arousal cradled where her thigh met her hip.

There was a sudden moment when the tempo hitched to a high pace. Molly began unbuttoning his shirt, her panties somewhere on the linoleum of her kitchen. He cupped her mound, his other hand moving to lift her leg around him so he could access her further. Their mouths were desperate, open kisses moving from lips to ears to necks and back again.

First a single finger entered her, that long slender middle finger that Molly had often thought about. Then two…then three. Her mewls of ecstasy had Sherlock moving faster within her, his fingers pulsing in and out of her almost harshly. As she came, her body on fire and slick with desire, he lifted her onto the counter, fell to his knees, and began to nuzzle her to another peak.

His tongue was flicking at her clit at a rapid pace, her hands scratching the wood of her cabinets as she tried to find something to cling to. Her fingers scraped into his hair again, pressing him closer. She came again, crying out his name, "SHERLOCK!"

She wasn't sure when he had unbuttoned his slacks, but when she tasted herself on his lips, he entered her, her swollen body tightening around him in the aftershocks of her climax.

Passion swallowed them up like a typhoon. She came again and again, her already swollen entrance going into overload.

She came one last time, legs wrapped around him for strength as he pounded in her over and over again. White spots flashed before her eyes, her thighs quaking, her whole body a quivering mess as he pulled out of her body.

She didn't realize how close she had clung to him, her arms and legs wrapped around him like a vine on a branch. She didn't realize that she had bit his neck hard enough to leave a mark. She only knew she didn't want to let go.

Sherlock picked her up off the counter, made his way to the bedroom as he stroked her back, a purr escaping her lips. She finally untangled her weakened limbs from his body, amazed by his strength after such an arduous workout, but at that point, she didn't care. He crawled into bed next to her, spooning close.

She didn't want to think about what would happen in the morning. She didn't want to think about if he would leave or not. She was only happy enough that he was there.

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><p>And now Diary, I can say that he is still here. Of course, I was so buzzed afterward that I had to get up and finish making that tea. He sleeps so sweetly, his hair all amess and his face all squished like it is.<p>

I just don't know what to do now. What happens after this? I can't help but feel as if I'm a rebound for him. But…I guess…I guess I can say that now I've helped him realize that he can feel.

He's not a robot. He's still human. It's just…hidden.

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><p><em>Thank you for reading! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease read and review. It always makes me inspired to write.<em>


	2. Who Am I Kidding?

**Hello all!**

**So! With the sudden outburst I saw from my supposed 'one-shot' Sherlolly fanfiction, I decided to surprise everyone with a NEW chapter!**

**Just kidding! It's not over yet!**

**This one is set similarly to the last chapter, with a start from Molly's POV, then into the narrator sequence, then back to Molly.**

**Markings will be made clear, so without further to do!**

**Chapter two yall!**

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><p>Dear Diary…this isn't working.<p>

I wanted it to. So badly. I wanted him to fall in love with me and understand that he needs me in his life to survive. I wanted to be the heroine from those flimsy little romance novels that my mother used to read. I just…I just don't know what to do anymore.

He hasn't been over in a month. He's refused to speak to me, except to demand his coffee when he walks in the lab door. I'm back to being the sad little girl that was more of a nuisance than worth his while.

I should have seen it coming in all honesty. It started about a week after our first night together. He was so…wild the first time. Then we got to bed, and it was like watching sugar melt in hot water. You couldn't see it, but the sweetness was still there. He was like a child, just clinging to me while we slept. Then he'd wake me up with these kisses that just made me ache all over. It went on for about a week, then every other day he'd show.

Then finally he stopped coming all together.

He wouldn't tell me what was going on. I asked him once. Asked him what was wrong, if everything was okay. I didn't want to act like I was being clingy or anything, I just…I was just concerned is all.

He just did this little snort thing, that thing he does when he finds something utterly preposterous. And like that he walked off without a word. Back to _my_ microscope.

And there he sat for the next month, saying nothing to me.

I shouldn't have been as heartbroken as I felt. I knew it wasn't going to last. I knew there wasn't a chance for me.

I should have known he wasn't human.

That was just my petty excuse for falling to hard for him all over and over and over again. My mother always told me I had a weak heart.

I guess she was right.

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><p>Molly closed her leather bound notebook, wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her lab coat. She tried to breath in deep, tried to relax and just…be for a moment. Her therapist called it meditation, and she tried to meditate all the hate and hurt that she felt out her fingers and toes.<p>

It wasn't helping.

She gave up, throwing her lab reports and books into her knapsack, more embarrassed and depressed than she had ever been in her entire life. Looking back on the lab, she sighed as she said goodnight to her second home.

"You do count."

The voice almost shocked her out of her shoes. She jumped into the door, turning to see that familiar trench coat she used to smile at when she would see it on her coat rack. Now it made her want to cry.

"You do count Molly."

She stopped thinking. Her mind had suddenly frozen in time, replaying those words at least a million times in her head before she registered what he was speaking of. That night in the lab, while she was watching Sherlock and John work on another experiment or some mystery case she wasn't allowed to know.

_I know I don't count…_

That's what she had said. She had said it because she had finally given up. It was her way of telling him that she was done with him, without hurting him. But then she'd decided that Sherlock couldn't feel hurt.

She was thinking of changing her mind.

"You've always counted…" he muttered, almost to himself more than to her. "You've always counted…and I've always trusted you."

His eyes were on hers so swiftly they caught her by surprise. They caught her by surprise every time he looked her in the eye.

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. So he spoke for her.

"But you're right. I'm not okay."

Her sudden concern for him came out in her voice. "Tell me what's wrong."

There was a blank space in the moment where neither of them spoke. She could see something in his eyes, something she couldn't put her finger on, but she wasn't sure she wanted to know what it was.

"Molly…I think I'm going to die…"

Her heart dropped. She knew it. That something in his eyes was fear.

Sherlock Holmes was terrified.

Sherlock Holmes was terrified, and he needed her.

"What do you need?"

She almost laughed at his confusion. After all this time, he still didn't seem to realize that she had no control over how much she loved him. How much she would do for him no matter what he did to her.

"I wasn't everything that you think I am…everything _I_ think I am. But you…still want to help me?"

She didn't even hesitate.

"What do you need?"

"You."

That one word. That one simple word brought her heart back to where it had been since she first met him. The thought of forgetting him completely left her, a blip in existence that didn't matter anymore. She dropped her bag to the floor, reached for him.

They didn't brush into a heady kiss. They didn't swiftly take each other to the floor like those silly little books that a tiny Molly had at one point read.

Instead, Sherlock wrapped his coat around her, their foreheads pressed together in a brush of comfort, and that was almost more passionate than anything Molly could have asked for. Their noses caressed, and before she could stop them, tears began to spill.

"Molly," he whispered. "I don't deserve your tears."

She smiled. "You're right."

A chuckle passed between them, all forgiven in the blink of an eye. Then he kissed her. Then he drank her in like water, consumed her and wrapped her again in his storm cloud of a coat.

Her lab coat was in a pool on the floor, her shoes quickly toed off to join it. Her mind was beginning to take over, over-thinking becoming her trademark. She saw herself standing on the precipice, the place she had hung just moments before. She had pulled herself away from that ledge just hours ago, ready to walk away from the darkness of the unknown and the pain.

She stood there again, and this time…this time she decided to jump.

She gave herself whole heartedly to this man who had treated her with hatred, but was now clinging to her like she would disappear from sight at any given moment.

She was in love with a man who couldn't love her back.

And she was okay with that.

She was upon the counter again, blouse gone, the sheer lace of her bra a whisper in the shadows. He removed the band holding her hair back, allowing it to fall about her shoulders and her breasts. The strands were quickly in his fingers, pressed to his face while his eyes drifted closed. He pulled her close, his brow resting on her collarbone, her legs on either side of him.

"Molly…"

"I know," she whispered.

"I can't love you like you want me to."

Pause. "I know."

"…will you still love me?"

She lifted his head to look upon him. "Yes. Always."

Those lips seared her to the bone. She took control, her nails scratching his scalp as she slid off the counter. When his eyes asked questions, she only nodded that he sit where she had been. He did as told, that inquisitive smirk that he wore when he was learning something new lingering on his face.

Molly was happy to see that look on his face. Especially when it was her doing. She stood between his legs now as he brushed strands from her face, pressed kisses to the top of her head. She undid the buttons of his shirt one by one, only interrupted by the lifting of his hands for a kiss to her lips. Pulling it from his trousers, Molly brushed those delicate fingers across his chest. There was not a section of his torso left undiscovered. Then, when she was completely satisfied with her search, she placed a kiss on his heartbeat, felt the steady rhythm before she pulled away.

Not a word was exchanged. Neither of them spoke in the silence of the lab. But there was an understanding passed between them. She removed her skirt and her hose, taking time with each as he watched her with eyes like a wolf on a doe. She slid her arms behind her, letting precious moments pass as she undid her bra. A smirk of her own grew on her face as she tempted him, hooking her thumbs underneath the simple swatch of cotton, letting them fall to the floor with the rest of it.

She was completely naked before him. And she was too far away from him for her liking.

She placed a palm on his heart. "Lay down," she whispered. Her voice tempted, promised things even she was surprised to hear.

He did as told, their bodies moving in tandem. As he slid back to lie upon the table, she slid over his body with a smoothness she never knew she possessed. Molly Hooper, the innocent girl who was in love with a misunderstood man, was now a woman seducing a man whom she would teach to love, no matter how long it took. Straddling him, she rose above him, her fingers making swift work of the silver buckle, the hidden zipper.

He was eager, burning in her hands as her palms wrapped around him. He swallowed, his adams apple bobbing with her hands. Tempting him further, she pressed her fingers to herself, lifted them up to see. "I'm so…wet."

He moaned, she sighed, and she surrendered, guiding him into the wetness of her.

She moved slowly, the traction of his member against her walls an erotic texture she wanted to feel all over her body. He held her hips with a bruising force, the control within him near a breaking point. She lifted herself almost completely off of him.

And, giving him what he wanted, she swiftly took him again.

Sherlock broke. He sat up, clutching her torso to torso. One arm wrapped around her, the other clawed into her buttocks as he forced her to move at his pace. Skin slapped together in a frenzy, hips thrusting, shoulders quaking in the effect of a climax soon to come.

And came it did. Molly cried out as his cock slammed into her cervix, Sherlock soon to follow as her walls came squeezing in against him. He was locked within her swollen lips both below and above, and in that moment, neither of them would have it any other way.

Suddenly though, in the midst of their light kisses and cooling skin, Sherlock began to chuckle.

"What is it?" she muttered, brushing the sweaty curls from his head to kiss him there.

He smiled, pulled her close to press his face against her collar bone. "Molly…"

"Yes?"

"I think you just may have saved my life."

Molly grasped his face, looked into his eyes to search for the answer. "You have an idea?"

* * *

><p>And beautiful…beautiful lovely Sherlock's life was saved…by me.<p>

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><p><strong>BAM!<strong>

**What was the answer? Even I don't know yet. So you'll have to figure it out!**

**Let me know what you think! Read & Review lovelies!**


	3. What Goes Up

**_Chapter 3_**

Hello again journal.

It's been a while I guess since my last entry. Two weeks maybe? I'm not sure. Everything's been going about like a blur, and lately I've been spending so much time at the morgue it's been a mess.

But I finally got a week off. It was getting…too dangerous to be at home anymore.

What with Sherlock living there now.

He's alive. And well, albeit rather bored (he tells me every five minutes now). We snuck him out the basement and moved him to my house after the effects of the drugs had worn out of his system. I literally had to lock all others out of the morgue until then or else the nurses would try to take his body out before I could. It was all so tedious and detailed, but Sherlock took care of most of it.

Now we're in the country. It helps that my parents are a bit well off and we have a small cabin in Ireland next to the coast. In fact, I'm watching the sun rise right now. It gives me a chance to think since I really haven't had the chance.

What I'm thinking is…well…I don't know. For one thing, Sherlock is a puzzle. At one moment he's cuddly and the next the same cynical man I've always known. He's like a cat…in fact, he's a lot like Toby now that I think about it.

Heaven forbid he reads this. He'd kill me for that, seeing as he and Toby don't actually see eye to eye and all that.

Anyway, I'm not sure how he feels. I know he can't love me. He's told me. And I guess I prefer it that way. It's better to know the truth that he can't love me like a normal man would and not create false hopes. It also keeps me from clinging in a sense. If he goes off to other things, I would be…sad. Heartbroken yes, but I would be able to understand a little bit more.

And I know he needs someone here.

He's got no one now except me. Not John, not Mrs. Hudson, not even his brother. All of them think he's dead. That's part of the reason why we came here to Ireland. John called the apartment, and out of habit Sherlock picked up the phone. John was in a panic once I ripped the phone from Sherlock, asking "Who was that?" and "Was that him?" I had to convince him for an hour after that it wasn't him, and he even tried to come over about a week later. Sherlock was home alone then, and had to force himself not to answer the door…

His face when I came back from errands…it was like I'd never seen before.

He's getting better. The depression has ebbed since his 'funeral' and he's becoming more and more talkative. He solves cases in the newspaper and tells me about them, how he could do better and how pathetic the police probably look. And I listen as I pour tea and make toast in the mornings.

But right now, as the sun rises and my coffee steams, as the ocean crashes against the rock, I'm happier than I've been in my entire life. The love of my life is sleeping the house. Soon, like clockwork, he'll be awake and waiting for his brew as well. I'll make it, and we'll talk a little. But that's okay.

Because for me, just having him near is enough.

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><p>Molly was beginning to realize slowly that maybe therapists were not all crackpots like she thought they were. As she read through past entries that she had written, she smiled at her words, and realized that even though she thought mentally she was a wreck, she still had an organization that was clearly her and no one else.<p>

She held the book close, wrapping her grandmother's quilt around her shoulders as the cool breeze from the tide caressed her face. She hadn't bothered to put her clothes back on, seeing as they were quite literally out in the middle of nowhere. Sherlock was the only person within a ten mile vicinity.

"Sherlock?"

She could almost feel his smile. "You're getting better."

"I could smell you on the breeze."

He sat down next to her on the bench, the sheet from their bed wrapped around his shoulders as well. "I do bathe you know."

Molly cuddled closer. "I know. But you have a distinct smell. I like it."

He looked down at her. "Are you wearing any pants?"

"No."

There was a silence, and both of them giggled a tad. Sherlock began to tell Molly about the time that he had been at the palace in nothing but a sheet. Molly listened to the dynamics in his voice about his brother, and the look on his face when he saw what Sherlock had done.

"I almost lost my sheet."

Molly gasped. "No!"

"It's true. My brother wouldn't let me leave unless I put clothes on. He even threatened to make me walk the streets of London naked."

Giggles erupted from her throat. "Now _that_ I would have loved to see."

Sherlock nuzzled her neck. "I bet you would."

Those little flutters of feeling she felt in her stomach were beginning to rise again. "S-should we go inside?"

He nipped that chord on her neck that send lightning between her legs. Pulling her onto his lap, he pushed the blankets aside so that they were surrounded in warmth, but there was nothing between them. "I want you now."

Sherlock was inside her before she had time to protest. Of course, she didn't remember why she had wanted to protest to this lovemaking in the first place. It was a slow slide, like the waves from the ocean to the shore. Nothing was rushed, and the natural beauty of the sunrise framing them only made it a sweeter experience.

Molly had always thought that making love outdoors would be the worst idea. Suddenly it was the most exquisite memory in her mind.

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><p>Sherlock was reading the news, cup in hand. They had showered together, rinsing off the dew of sweat that had covered them, only to make love again. Molly was still in her robe, eating her toast and eggs, letting her hair dry in the morning sun. She stretched like a cat, thinking about a possible nap before her lesson on deducting from her lover.<p>

A shattered sound came from the table. Molly from her place in the kitchen, ran to see what was amiss.

The coffee mug that had once been in his hand was now shattered on the ground. Shock clouded his features, and his eyes scanned the paper like it was the most important document in the world.

"Sherlock?" she whispered.

He muttered something.

"What?"

"…he's back…"

There was something disturbing about the way Sherlock pushed himself away from the table, like there was something so horrifying that even he could not look upon it. Molly ran to him, picked up the newspaper.

Suddenly, she was almost weeping.

_**James Morarity: Next Prime Minister?**_

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><p>I don't know what to do. He's almost incoherent, his babbling moving too quickly for me to understand. I've never seen him so…so frenzied before. I knew bits and pieces from previous cases that Sherlock had solved, one of them being the bombings. I knew that this man had used me to get at Sherlock and was clever, but I never knew…there's something terribly wrong.<p>

Sherlock won't tell me much more. Only something about him dying on the roof of Barts.

I have to keep watching him. The last thing he can do now is blow his cover. The world isn't ready for him to come back just yet. But the thing is…who can solve this _but_ him?

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><p><em><strong>I know right? What will we do? Of course, I love Morarity, but that would more than likely be a bad idea.<strong>_

_**Let me know what you think! Good or bad will do! Thanks to all who have reviewed already! Especially a shout out to Sula Reyes for her honest opinion!  
><strong>_

_**Happy Reading!  
><strong>_


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